Sense to the sightless earth and make it live.

The ponderous wings beat on and no pursuit:

Stiff as the painted kite that guards the fruit,

Afloat o’er orchards ripe, the eagle yet

Hung as at anchor, seeming to forget

His uncaught prey, his rage unsatisfied.

Still, quiet, dead . . . and then the quickest-eyed

Had lost him. Like a star unsphered, a stone

Dropped from the vault of heaven, a javelin thrown,

He swooped upon his prey. Down, down he came,